


The Salvation Holme

by HerEvilRoyalty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt John Watson, John-centric, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Post The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 11:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerEvilRoyalty/pseuds/HerEvilRoyalty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After 'The Fall' Doctor John H. Watson finds that his home, just isn't a home...without his Holmes. Maybe Mycroft can help with that...in a round about sort of way...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1 Week After The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Something that's been in my head for a little while. Finally decided to just type it up, see what comes of it. I know where I'm going with this, I just have no idea if it's going to be decent, is all. Let's see how it goes, eh?

221B Baker Street looks like a tornado has hit it. The sofa has been flipped over, it's cushions randomly strewn about the kitchen, and hallway. The kitchen table is now missing one of it's legs, all of the experiments that had been living on said table are currently laying on the floor; smashed, leaking, and worryingly enough eating through the wooden floor. The fridge door is hanging off, all of the plates and dishes lay broken on the floor and in the sink. John's laptop screen is amongst the broken plates in the sink, the other half was thrown into the hallway a few days ago.   
There's a blanket covering the center living room window, due to a bullet finding it's way through the pane. John's chair is in it's regular place, it's partner hidden beneath a large white bed-sheet.

  
Amid the wreckage of 221B, John Watson is sitting with his back against the far wall - the same wall containing a spray painted face, with bullet holes marring the aged wallpaper. John is clad in grey jogger bottoms, a white t-shirt that had seen better days, and a blue dressing gown that is far too big for him. He hasn't shaved in 6 days, hasn't showered in 4, hasn't eaten in 2. He hasn't spoken aloud in 7.

\----------------------------

Mrs. Hudson doesn't enter 221B. She places all of John's mail, she carefully removed anything addressed to one Mr S. Holmes from the small pile, and a bag containing tea - English breakfast, of course - milk, bread and a jar of John's favourite jam, at the closed living room door. She raps on the door, 'John, dear...I'm leaving your mail, and some essentials on the landing...do try to eat something, dear... I'm just downstairs, should you need...anything...' she calls through the door gently. She wrings her hands, and feels a small glimmer of hope as she hears movement from within the flat.

John snarls at the voice interrupting his internal conversation. He staggers to his feet, knocks over a bottle of what used to be Jack Daniels. He slumps against the fireplace, as he opens the media player on Sher...on the not wrecked laptop. He selects 'Infantry Columns 2 hour loop', and turns the sound up to it's maximum.

' _We're foot slog, slog, slog, sloggin' over Africa..._ ' blares through the door. Mrs. Hudson shakes her head sadly, and turns to leave. She hesitates, bangs on the door again, and shouts through, 'JOHN! I'VE LEFT TEA, MILK, BREAD, AND JAM ON THE LANDING...' she walks to the top of the 17 steps leading back down to 221A, and turns back to the closed door, 'Oh, Sherlock...the mess you've made...'.


	2. 2 Weeks After The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft visits 221B, he's not made welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of John's gun, sort of with the implication of his thinking of using it.

John's mobile phone has been bleeping intermittently for the past 13 days, John has ignored it every single time. There are currently 43 unread text messages, 19 voice mails, and 37 missed calls. The offending item is put on charge every night, never to be used the following day. The last text John read was from Sher...from SH. 'Pass the husbands toe. SH.' John had been sitting in the living room, while... _he_ sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by various body parts. John had laughed at the text, he'd turned in his chair and said, 'Lazy sod! The toe is practically touching your left arm! And why waste a text? I'm right here, genius!' Sherlock had glanced at John, grinned, and said, 'You know I prefer to text, John.' A bark of laughter, that could have easily been mistaken for a sob, escaped John's throat. 

He pulled the blue dressing gown tighter around himself, rested his head against the wall. A bottle of cheap whisky in his left hand, and his gun in the right. John had started talking again 4 days ago. He talks to Sher...he talks to the skull, continues to ignore the steadily growing pile of mail on the landing, and pretends that the hollow, empty feeling inside of him is just hunger...

\-------------------------------------

Mycroft Holmes is a great many things, patient being one of those things. He grew up in close quarters with Sherlock Holmes, he has to actively work with the British Government on a daily basis. Mycroft Holmes can be very patient, but this is getting ridiculous. He's been trying to contact one John Watson for the past 2 weeks. Mycroft doesn't like to text, but he had started in the hopes that the good Doctor would bloody well read them. He had tried calling John twice a day, since Sherlock's death. The phone was never answered. Mycroft had left 9 voice mails, each one urging John to contact him as soon as possible, that it was of utmost import than he speak with John. Still not a peep from the former Army Doctor.

On the 14th day, Mycroft choose to visit 221 Baker Street. Mrs Hudson let him in, made a fuss of him, insisting he stay for tea and cake. 'I must speak with Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson. If you'll excuse me?' he had said politely, while already heading for the stairs to 221B. Mrs Hudson had shook her head at the departing Holmes boy, 'Always rushing about, just like his brother.' she muttered, as she returned to her afternoon talk shows.

\-------------------------------------

The door into the living room was shut, and when Mycroft tried to let himself in, he found it had been locked. He tutted, as he tapped the door with his ever present umbrella. 'Doctor Watson? It's Mycroft. Can you open the door?'

John rolled his eyes, looked at the skull that he had placed on the bed-sheet clad chair, and hissed, 'This is all your bloody fault. Just had to go and be so bloody well...you!' John lifted the whisky bottle to his mouth, the amber liquid leaving a burning trail of warmth down his throat. He licked his chapped lips, and shouted hoarsely. 'Sorry, John's not in right now. If you leave your name and number on the door, he'll be sure to not get back to you!' John smirked at the skull, as he heard the distinct 'hrmph' from the other-side of the door.

'John, this is not what Sher...' Mycroft was cut off, as the door suddenly burst open, and a very angry John Watson stumbled into the taller man. John shoved Mycroft away, and steadied himself against the door frame. Mycroft noted that John's eyes were bloodshot, bleary from lack of sleep, and too much alcohol. But there were no tear tracks, no sobs wracking the smaller man. _Always the soldier_ , Mycroft internally mused.

'DON'T YOU BLOODY DARE! HOW WOULD YOU KNOW WHAT HE WANTED!?' John bellowed at the stunned man, 'GET OUT! GET OUT!' John grabbed the door for support and seemed to waiver, 'Please just go away, Mycroft...' this was said barley above a whisper, but Mycroft understood it far better than the shouting.

'I will be back, we have some very important and sensitive things to discuss, John.' Mycroft turned to leave, and would have merely left the shorter man to his grief, but a deep voice that was not his own implored him to take note of the dressing gown John was clad in, along with the smell of alcohol and gunpowder. Mycroft turned back toward the too quiet flat, 'You were a shell when he met you, he fixed you. Don't let this destroy all of his work.' with that, Mycroft descended the 17 steps, passed 221A quietly, so as not to be assaulted with tea and cake, and made his way to the sleek black car waiting for him.

\-------------------------------------

'Did he agree, sir?' a sultry female voice asked, as Mycroft slid into the leather seat, alongside his PA. She hadn't taken her eyes off that blasted phone. 'I didn't ask, the timing wasn't right.' 

'But sir!' 

Mycroft silenced the woman with a scathering look, 'You manage my appointments for me, leave the intelligence to me, hmm?' he smiled, in a most unpleasant way.

\--------------------------------------

John staggered to the far left window, the window that _he_ used to play the violin in front of... he turned away from the window before the black car left the street, and met the yellow face on the wall, he instinctively threw the first thing to hand at the mocking smile. The skull bounced off the wall, and rolled back towards him. He actually laughed, it came out raspy, harsh...but he laughed. He shook his head as he bent down to retrieve the skull, 'I suppose I'll be the one paying for the damages then, eh?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yea...I know where I'm taking this, honestly, I do. It's just a bit bumpy. Hoping this flows alright, might end up being heavily edited.


	3. 3 Weeks After The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Damn Mycroft bloody Holmes!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If something is in italics, it's supposed to be internal monologue/general thoughts.

_'You were a shell when he met you, he fixed you. Don't let this destroy all of his work.'_

The same 19 words had been running through John's head, for a week now. _Damn Mycroft bloody Holmes!_

221B looked a lot less like it had been hit by a John Watson shaped tornado. The 3 legged table had been righted, a pile of medical textbooks acting as the 4th leg. The broken crockery, and computer parts are nowhere to be seen. The window with the bullet hole has been replaced, at John's expense, he'd insisted. The sofa was once more in it's correct place, with all cushions adorning it. John's chair still stands by it's bed-sheet cloaked partner, that John now thinks of belonging to 'that blasted skull', as Mrs Hudson so fondly refers to it.

John also started showering, shaving, and eating 6 days ago. _Bloody Mycroft bloody Holmes, and his stupid 19 words!_

The all encompassing sense of loss is still present, it's like a permanent ache in John's solar plexus. He hasn't been out of the flat in 3 weeks, the idea of walking around, on his own...it just seems so inherently wrong, even in his head. John isn't avoiding the outside world, he's just protecting it from himself. Or maybe it's him that he's protecting...? Either way, there is no drive or desire to leave the too quiet, too tidy flat. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't lonely, the loneliness felt like a presence following him around, pressing in on him. Mrs Hudson called in every so often to bring him groceries and a current paper, each time she set the carrier bag of food down, she'd remind him that she's not his housekeeper and that he should be doing his own shopping, and what about seeing that nice lady doctor? Or perhaps going for a drink with his old friend, Mike? Each time, John would make an excuse as to why he couldn't go out, 'my leg's been acting up again, Mrs Hudson' or 'I was going to go tomorrow, you just beat me to it!' Mrs Hudson, bless that wonderful woman, never once called John on his repetitive lies, she merely put his shopping away, made him a fresh cup of tea and left, always saying 'I'm just downstairs, dear. Just shout if you need anything.' John would smile, and thank her, wishing her a pleasant evening...and a couple of days later, they'd repeat. 

Once he knows Mrs Hudson is once more safely out of earshot, John will occasionally talk to the skull. He'd argued with himself (and the skull) that it wasn't weird or creepy or insane...it was just different. It was easier talking to an inanimate object, and knowing it wasn't going to reply, than to talk to a gravestone, while hoping for a miracle. 

The truth is, John wakes up every day, not in his own bed, goes to the kitchen and makes 2 cups of tea. He drinks one, throws the other away. It's habit to make the other cup for...well, for someone who will never touch it. He doesn't even realize he's made 2 cups, until he brings his own used cup to the sink. Every single time he sees the untouched cup of tea, a lump forms in his throat, and for a few seconds, John wishes he'd just go to sleep and not have to wake up again. _Useless bugger, never once did you get the bloody milk...you never will now, will you?_


	4. 4 Weeks After the Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John overhears a conversation about him, and seriously needs out of the flat.

A whole month. 4 entire weeks. Huh...it feels more like 4 years, to John. 

He had originally taken to sleeping in the downstairs bedroom, the one that had belonged to...well, it had not belonged to John. He'd stopped sleeping in the room a few days ago, he would wake up each morning and be able to smell that useless great git. At first, John had allowed himself this small comfort, the notion that his flatmate had just exited the room, and would be back. Some mornings, John could swear he could smell fresh cigarette smoke. Ah, the wonders of the human brain, tricking him into thinking...into thinking this Hell he's currently living in, isn't truly real. One morning he'll wake up, and that great bloody git will be laid out on the sofa, making ridiculous demands, 'send a text for me!' or 'John, I need a sample of your blood and a peach.' But no, each morning John would wake up and the phantom cigarette smoke would assault his nostrils, and the first thing he would see is that infernal periodic table print.

John stopped sleeping in that room, which is why he had been dosing on the sofa, when voices from the street below woke him. '...the poor love. He needs to get back out there, he can't grieve forever.' John didn't recognise the male voice. 'Oh, I know, dear! He's such a lovely young man. He's a doctor, you know?' John did recognize the female voice though, that was the one and only Mrs. Hudson. Obviously talking about him. 

John sighed, there was that phantom bloody smell again, wiped the sleep from his eyes, and went to the window. Below he saw Mrs. Hudson and 2 young men, obviously an item. 'A doctor? Really? Oh my, quite the catch! We have a friend, Oscar, he's a surgeon. We should set the pair of them up!' John took an instant dislike to the man trying to manipulate his love life. 

'What a wonderful idea! I'm just going to the shops, the poor dear won't even go shopping, but when I get back, I'll have a word with him. It'll do him good to meet someone new.' John could hear the motherly affection in her voice, it made him equal parts feel warm and loved, and equal parts irritated. _I'm not gay. I'm not gay. I'm not gay. Urgh. What's the point? I don't even care_. He quietly closed the window, effectively silencing the meddling conversation from below.

John slumped into his armchair and glared at the skull, 'What was that, Skully? You think I should start dating? And why would I want, or in fact, need to do so? He was my flatmate. My best friend. My...' his voice had started to break, though John was unsure if it was through emotion or shock at the fact he was about to say, 'my everything'. 

John stood up, nodded at the skull, then grabbed his jacket and decided he needed to not be inside this little nook of emotional torture, with it's phantom smells, interfering matchmakers and most disturbing of all, the sheer lack of body parts cluttering up the fridge. He turned back to the chair, still covered in a bed-sheet, currently occupied by his silent, inanimate, counterpart. 'Okay Skully, I'm going to go out and...do...normal...erm, blokey type stuff. So...house rules; no wild parties, don't blow up the kitchen - or any room actually, don't use my (borrowed) laptop, and absolutely no throwing yourself off of...anything.' _Christ...I'm completely off my rocker, aren't I?_ John sighed once more, and tried to tell himself that he would stop talking to the inanimate object...soon. Very soon.


	5. 5 Weeks After the Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is there someone lurking on the stairs, or has John finally lost it...?

After 5 weeks of a nigh on constant hermit lifestyle, Doctor John Watson decided it was about time he earned the 'Doctor' moniker again. He called Sarah Sawyer, M.D, and after a lengthly discussion about how John was doing, she had agreed he could return to the surgery. She was only giving him 2 shifts a week, but it was better than nothing. And really, Sarah could have quite easily, and have been well within her right, to refuse him. Send him on his way, and not have to put up with his tardyness, which would no longer be an issue anyway, or him falling asleep on the job. Which could still be a problem, as he wasn't sleeping too well. Best not mention that to Sarah though.  
The other doctors were nice enough, though whenever he walked into the staff room, he got the feeling they had just abruptly stopped talking about him. _Awkward social interactions, gotta love them_. On his second shift back, one of the nurses, Jenny - a brunette, with a 50mega-watt smile - had asked him out for a drink, but he had declined. Stating he was off out for tea with his sister, she had big news, and other such lies.  
Instead of joining an absolute stunner for a few drinks, maybe more, John decided he would return to his too quiet flat and order chinese takeaway. Perfectly normal, single male behaviour. Or so he reasoned with himself on the walk home, and then again to that _bloody skull_ once he was back at 221B.

It was late by the time John's food arrived, and he finally got to tuck into his chow mein, he'd skipped lunch and was ravenous. He had just stuffed a spring roll into his mouth - vegetable rolls with a healthy dose of soy sauce - when he heard someone coming up the stairs. He put his takeout carton down, slid his hand down the side of the sofa and came into contact with his gun. He didn't move to stand, he stayed exactly where he was, with his gun aimed at the doorway. John has excellent hearing, John was - is - a soldier. The frontdoor was not opened or closed, John would have heard. He knew it wasn't Mrs. Hudson, she had said goodnight to him an hour ago. John calmly flicked his eyes to his watch, 11:42pm. The person on the stairs seemed to be trying to be quiet, avoiding the creaky steps. _Someone who knows the flat, someone that has been inside of the flat before. But who?_

John flicked his eyes back to his watch, 11:58pm, no other sounds had come from the stairs. John had stayed perfectly still, listening for the slightest sound. His gun hand did not waver, he was a soldier, but a surgeon first - he thrived under pressure, always had. At midnight, John stood, flicked the light in the front room off, and silently moved toward the door. He slipped into the hallway and looked down into the dark recess of the stairway, still listening intently for any sounds. After a further 2 minutes, John let out a long sigh. _Am I cracking up...?_

John shook his head and walked back into the frontroom, flicking the light switch back on. His gun was lowered now, but he was still alert enough to hear the back door of Mrs. Hudson's flat close. He shot down the stairs, ran through 221A's open door, and straight to the backdoor. He opened it, gun back up, and searched the alleyway. Nothing. No one.  
As John made his way back upstairs, he could smell that infernal phantom cigarette smoke. He decided to reheat his dinner, and change all of 221's locks in the morning. John ate his now not so appealing food, then settled in for a night of no sleep. He looked at the skull, 'If he can go 4 days without sleeping once, I can do one night. Right, Skully? Good. Glad you agree with me.' _Defintely cracking up there, Watson._  
\------------------------------------------------------------  
Mrs. Hudson had been difficult, at first, with regard to changing all of the locks in 221. It was only down to how distressed John had been, that she had finally agreed. New sets of keys were cut, with only John and Mrs. Hudson having a set each. John also fitted a deadbolt on 221A's backdoor, and to the frontdoor. 221 was safe and sound, or at least that's what John hoped. The disturbance on the stairs, from the night before was still weighing heavily on John's mind. 

There was 3 distinct possibilities; John had cracked up and was hearing things, John had cracked up and was imagining a certain consulting detective was haunting 221B's staircase, the final possibility being that one of the homeless network had snook in hoping for food and warmth. _Yes, that was it, Watson. Just some homeless kid, probably seeking shelter. No need to go mental, and have to clear every room, handgun at the ready._ Not that John had done that. Today, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very late with this chapter, I blame Cortana & Master Chief - they keep insisting I go off on missions with them.


	6. 5 Weeks & 1 Day After the Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Wait...were you here last night?'

There was still a tight ball of tension niggling at the back of John Watson's neck. The previous nights 'staircase phantom' had shook him. He wasn't afraid, he was furious. Someone had intruded on not only his home, but Mrs. Hudson's as well. That did not sit well with John, at all. He stared at the skull sitting across from him, 'Oh shut up, you! She's not just my houseke...Landlady. She's important.' John sighed, and rubbed his weary eyes. His stomach grumbled, which is when he realized he hadn't eaten since last night - lukewarm noodles, John cringed internally.

\------------------------------------------

As he didn't have work in the morning, John had decided to treat himself to a late supper of fish and chips, while watching a rerun of Doctor Who. Mrs. Hudson was out at the Bingo, she had promised to whisk them both off to Spain if she won big tonight. John had chuckled, and said he'd get his speedos out ready. 

So when the door of 221 was opened - an hour too early to be Mrs. Hudson, a very alert and irritated army doctor had his gun out, dinner knocked to the floor, and was down the stairs in less than 20 seconds. 

Which is when he came face to face with a startled Mycroft Holmes. 

'John! What on earth?' Mycroft rearranged his tie, trying to regain an air of nonchalance, he wasn't fooling anyone. 'I think it's safe to put that down, Doctor Watson.' to his credit, Mycroft's voice didn't waiver. John didn't move to put the gun away. 'How did you get in here? I changed these locks. This morning.' 

'Come now, John. If I want to get somewhere enough, I will find a way to do so. Locks or not.' Mycroft leaned his weight onto that bloody umbrella, and raised his perfectly groomed eyebrows at John. 

'Hrmph.' John lowered his gun, 'Fine. Come on up, make yourself at home, why don't you? I mean, you have a bloody key and all.' 

Mycroft rolled his eyes at the retreating back of the deceptively easy going John Watson. 

Mycroft picked up the skull from his late brother's chair, and settled himself down. 'Now, John...' 

'Wait. Were you here last night?' John's brow was furrowed, he seemed almost desperate for an immediate answer.

'No, I was not even in London last night. John, what has happened...?'


End file.
